


the floor is lava (translator note: "lava" means "sensory hell")

by aphwhales



Series: alphamatic polyamorous kids [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, gratuitous analogies of roxy's issues to "the floor is lava", sensory processing issues, speech issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 09:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14041431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphwhales/pseuds/aphwhales
Summary: Roxy spends a Sensory Hell day like usual.





	the floor is lava (translator note: "lava" means "sensory hell")

**Author's Note:**

> i really wanted to add to this series (this works fine as a standalone tho!!) and i wasnt feeling up to updatin hfti or tgoatff so. have this, my wonderful ot5 and my not so wonderful writing.

You feel disgusting and awful and sick - 

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you’re having a really shitty day. One of your touch-is-to-much days. Right now, you’re sitting on the floor of the shower, squeezing a bottle of soap onto your feet as the cold spray hits you. You don’t know how Dirk can stand making it so hot, because the cold still feels too hot for you, and the faucet is turned as far to the right as it can go. 

You should probably turn it off, and you do that, but don’t make any move to get out of the tub. It’s nice and cool against your bare skin, and you prefer to airdry than towel-dry, especially on days like these. 

You must take too long, because someone knocks on the door. You call for whoever it is to come in, and before you can really process it, Dirk is standing over you, blocking out the light on the ceiling. “You good?” His voice is whispery, because his way of being affected by living with absolutely no one was to just be quiet. You need noise, dammit. 

“Been b-be-eh. Better,” you reply, in your grating, carapace-accented shout. Dirk visibly winces, but you can’t help it. In what you think is a quieter tone, you elaborate, “Weird day. Meh-ntally ‘n shit, I mean.” 

Dirk nods, and it strikes you that the reason he’s standing here is probably just because he needs to use the shower. You sit up slowly, stretching your arms and legs forward like a cat. Dirk, bless his soul, keeps his eyes firmly on your left ear despite your current nakedness. 

He hands you your towel and holds your arm gently as you stumble out of the drying bathtub. You have to resist the urge to hiss at the feeling of his calloused hand on your forearm. You allow him to gently cover your shoulders with the towel, and step out the door.

The house is super cold, compared to the bathroom, and your toes curl at the feeling of the bare floor under your feet. You need to put socks on _immediately_. The floor is fucking lava.

On days like today, all you can tolerate is one of Dirk or Jake’s tank tops, the fluffy socks you save for these days of sensory hell, and whatever shorts or boxers you can steal from either the boys or Callie. And you only tolerate those because of Jane’s rule that you should wear underwear in the house.

You’ve never seen the appeal. Secret pants under your pants? Almost as bad as those boob cages Jane told you about when she noticed you weren’t wearing one when you all met on Jake’s island. You vowed to never, ever, _ever_ wear a bra unless you absolutely had to.

When you get to your room, Callie’s there, perusing your selection of fantasy and sci-fi novels. “Good morning.” 

“Mornin’,” You know you sound grumpy, but you don’t really care. The floor is sensory hell on your feet and you can’t be bothered to control your funny carapacian accent. Callie nods sympathetically at you, blows you a kiss, and click-clacks out of your bedroom. 

You are _soooo_ glad that your room is carpeted. The gritty tiles are basically the definition of that fucking floor-is-lava game. Slightly less sensory hell now, woot woot. You pull out you fuzzy pink socks with the stars on them and pull those suckers on, throw the towel in your hamper, and step back into the hallway to brave the house to steal some of the boys’ clothes. 

You decide to start with Jake, because it’s more likely that he has something loose you can wear. He sputters and covers his eyes when you poke your head in the door. “Jake. Ya-you’ve seen me nn-naked ‘n shit before.” 

It’s funny how much he spits, trying to form a coherent answer. When he gives up, he’s already rooting around his closet for a pair of boxers. The pair he throws at you are green with pumpkins on them, too small for him, but practically gargantuan on you. You grin at him, and manage to peck him on the cheek before you recoil from the sensory stimulation. 

Now more presentable, your next move is to steal one of Dirk’s wife-beaters. He’s finished showering by the time you get there - surprising, considering it’s only been about fifteen minutes since you got out. His hair’s dripping onto his sheets, and he’s only got a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. 

He pulls the towel tighter and allows himself to ogle your breasts for about a second before looking at your ear again. “What’s up? Give a guy some warning, maybe?”

You smile placidly. “S-s’ry.” There’s the accent again, getting heavier by the minute. “C’n I ha-have a shirt?” Dirk nods and stands to get a shirt from his messy dresser, and you allow yourself that time to gaze appreciatively at his lean muscles. He tosses you a shirt, finally - plain black and sleeveless. 

You yank it over your head, and smile brightly at Dirk before moving onto your last stop. Sensory hell days are normally spent in the bottom of Dirk or Jane’s closets, wrapped in a fluffy blanket that you hide in the back of your closet only for occasions like these. 

Your first destination, however, is the kitchen. Jane is there, predictably, along with Calliope, who’s typing slowly on her computer. The window is a mixture of bright red and pale gray, and when you walk past her you can see it’s Hal she’s messaging, not Dave. 

“Jaaane.” You whine, leaning on the counter. It’s cool, and it feels nice. Nice and smooth. Said spectacled girlfriend looks up at you from the sugar cookies she’s frosting. “Cah-can I use your clah - your closet?” 

“Of course.” Jane hums, flicks a bit of frosting off the bag she’s using, and hands you the cookie she’s just finished frosting. “Try not to mess up my dresses this time, though. They were so wrinkled last time!” She laughs, and it’s a tinny against your eardrums. 

You abscond from the kitchen, nearly slip and fall into Jake in the hallway. Then, you almost choke on your cookie while holding it in your mouth to grab your fluffy blanket, and you have to throw it out because of the gagging feeling of your throat. A shame, considering how good Jane’s baking is. 

You finally - finally! - end up at the bottom of Jane’s closet, an hour after you started this quest. Jake pokes his head a bit later to ask if you want lunch, and eventually joins you and allows you to adapt to human contact again by letting you cuddle him while you watch _Weekend at Bernie’s_ for the millionth trillionth time.

By bedtime, you’re good to sleep on the very edge of the bed, because even though you can still barely handle any contact aside from an arm around your waist, you need to sleep with your datemates. 

(And their bodies are the lava this time, instead of the floor. But like, cold lava, because they don’t hurt as much as the floor did.)


End file.
